“I have finished my breakfast,” he announced. “Have it cleared away, Huell.”
“Of course, my lord,” the butler said in calm accents. “Did you not find it to your liking? Shall I have Monsieur Talleyrand send something more agreeable to your lordship this morning?”
A memory flashed before him then, the cruelest of his captors spitting in a tin cup of water before holding it to Morgan’s lips and forcing him to drink. Forcing him to drink until he choked and could scarcely catch a breath. Such disparity between the life he had lived in captivity and the charmed existence he inhabited now. He could not help but feel as if he were split in two, halves but never whole.
“My lord?” Huell prompted.
Morgan realized he must appear the Bedlamite, knocking over furniture, refusing to break his fast, and then staring into the abyss of his past until his hands shook and his skin broke into a fine sheen of cold sweat.
The Duke of Whitley’s unsolicited advice returned to him then.Let the past die. Let it go, or it may well kill you.
He knew what he had to do now, in this moment of desperate uncertainty. He muttered something to his perplexed butler, but he could not say what. His feet were already carrying him to where he needed to be, as if his body knew better than his mind.
Or perhaps not just his body but whatever shadowy remnants he yet possessed of his heart.
*
Leonora had notconsumed much of her breakfast. And neither could she seem to concentrate upon her second reading of Freddy’sThe Silent Duke, regardless of how moving her friend’s prose was or how much she adored the novel. Though she had dressed and Hill had artfully arranged her hair, Leonora had no desire to leave her chamber.
By the bright light of the morning, she felt just as foolish as she had the evening before for awaiting a man who had no intention of returning home, and then seeking him out only to receive the equivalent of a crushing set down. Her stomach felt queasy. Her eyes felt as if they may erupt in tears at any moment. And overall, she did not recall ever being beset with such a grim mood.
She was stretched comfortably upon a lounge in her chamber, her leg—paining her this morning as a result of all the agitated pacing she had indulged in the previous evening—propped up on a soft pillow. Her favorite tea was cooling at her side, and she even had Caesar for company, having decided to thieve him from Searle by way of Hill, who had been only too happy to fetch the puppy for her.
Caesar had greeted her by launching himself into her lap and delivering a lusty series of licks to her chin before promptly settling and beginning to snore. On a distracted sigh, she set the book aside and ran her hand along the puppy’s spine. His fur was short yet silken, and when she petted him, he made a satisfied sound in his throat and rolled to his back, baring his belly to her.
She rubbed his belly and smiled down at the sweetly slumbering pup. “He does not deserve you, Caesar. What do you say to being my companion instead? Searle can find another dog. Or perhaps a barrel of whisky.”
“I had not realized you had an interest in the fine art of talking to one’s self.”
The deep, delicious resonance of Searle’s baritone settled somewhere between her thighs even as she jumped and tossed a startled look over her shoulder to find him hovering on the threshold between their chambers, staring at her. Though there was a teasing lilt to his words and tone, his expression remained inscrutable.
“What are you doing here, my lord?” she asked coolly.
“Eavesdropping upon your decision to steal my dog,” he quipped.
She frowned at him, trying to make sense of the latest version of the Marquess of Searle. He seemed a man perpetually torn, uncertain of who he was, or at least who he wanted to be. “I thought you did not want him.”
Just as you do not want me.The words hung, unsaid between them.
His green eyes seared her. “Of course I do.”
She wondered if they were still talking about Caesar. But it was too much to hope he may have heard her unspoken words and answered them. “That still does not explain your presence in my chamber.”
He glanced down. “I have not yet crossed the threshold, my lady, as I am awaiting your permission to enter.”
How silly. Her lips flattened as she considered him. This entire house and all its contents were his, right down to the slippers upon her feet. He did not require her permission for anything, much as he had already demonstrated.
But she was getting a cramp in her neck from gazing at him over her shoulder, so she supposed she may as well acquiesce.
“Please, Leonie,” he added before she could respond.
This request, so raw and soft, sounding as if it had been torn from him, along with the use of the diminutive he had given her, found its way to her heart. Why did he have to chase the bitterness of last night with such light?
She swallowed against an unwanted rush of emotion. “Very well. You may enter, but I cannot make any promises where Caesar is concerned.”
“Merciless as a highwayman,” he said, owning the chamber with his long strides and stopping to bow before her with a poignant elegance. His handsome countenance remained still, stark. “You did not join me for breakfast this morning.”
It was not what she had anticipated he would say. Caesar shifted on her lap, prodded into wakefulness by the presence of his master. She gave him a reassuring scratch on his velvety head, staring up at her husband.
